Hit and Run
by My Reality is Fiction
Summary: Roy Earle won't be made a fool of...especially by a woman.  Rated M for intense sexual situations and language.
1. Chapter 1

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Roy cruised lazily down 1st street in his Cadillac convertible. It was almost seven and he was sure to be late to work but he didn't care, the drug addicts and whores would wait for him. They usually operated at night anyway. He flicked the ash of his after breakfast cigarette out the window took a long drag. The nicotine gave him the buzz he was after. His hangover from the night before throbbed dully and he turned the radio down, muting some new Bing Crosby number. Something glinted on the passenger seat, catching Roy's eye. He reached over. It was costume jewelry, probably from that dame he had picked up at The Blue Room last night. He smirked. She had been pretty hammered, Roy's job had been fairly easy. A few sly words, a martini, and the broad had practically thrown herself into Roy's lap.

_I __hope __she __won't __try __and __get __this __back__…__I __hate __talking __to __them_. Roy tossed the earring into the backseat and turned back to the road.

"Fucking shit!"

The woman was lucky Roy had seen her when he did. His foot fell hard on the brake, jolting him into the steering wheel. The car squealed to a stop just before hitting her. Furious, Roy laid on the horn. The woman didn't even glance in his direction. She skipped lithely across the street, emerald green suit flashing in the sunlight, and disappeared around a corner.

"What the hell!" Roy yelled after her, aware that she probably couldn't hear him but too angry to care. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Lady?"

The only response he received was the angry honks of the cars behind him.

Still shaking with adrenaline, Roy cautiously continued through the intersection. _Fucking __dames, _he thought irritably, lighting another cigarette to calm his nerves. This time the smoke did nothing. He tossed it out the window. Scotch, there was scotch in his desk drawer. He'd have a tall glass of that before hitting the debriefing room, that would steady him.

Five minutes later, Roy parked his car and headed into the police station. His desk and its precious contents were on the second floor. He hurried up the stairs, breezing past a few of his favorite secretaries who called out after him.

"Not now, Girls."

He had just turned the corner that led to his office when he was stopped dead in his tracks. There, sitting at the desk just outside of his door, was the woman in the emerald green suite.


	2. Chapter 2

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Her name was Margo Donahue and she hadn't been sent from the temp agency. She was a plant sent by Mickey Cohen to keep tabs on his contacts in the LAPD. Apparently, somebody on his payroll wasn't playing nice anymore, or so Roy's contacts said. In exchange for his hush-money, Mickey had been slapped with a drug trafficking charge. Roy was sure it wasn't anything Mickey couldn't handle, but that wouldn't stop Cohen from being royally pissed off. Mobsters didn't like it when their dirty laundry was aired in front of the new DA, especially if they had spent perfectly good money to ensure such a thing wouldn't happen.

Roy knew why he had been targeted. It was that loud mouthed new partner of his, Cole Phelps. He had been running around screwing over mobsters since his days in Traffic. Mickey probably figured Phelps, in one of his holier-than-thou moods, had convinced somebody to give him up. Subsequently, Roy was now on their radar. Guilty or not…it didn't matter. If it ended up Phelps _had_ been the one to get somebody to squawk, Roy would be getting his very own pair of cement shoes. He would be made an example of.

None of that mattered at the moment though. If Cohen had to send a woman in to dig up some dirt then they were grasping at straws. They had nothing, nothing on Phelps and nothing on Roy and they were hoping this Margo Donahue broad would fit the pieces together for them. Roy thought the whole thing very tiresome.

It did, however, further his vendetta against Margo, something he found strangely satisfying. The more reasons he found to ruin her, the more excitable he became. And now he had the upper hand. He knew her little secret, her connection to Cohen, and he wasn't going to let either of them get away with it. Nobody made a fool of Roy Earle. The power, which had briefly wavered in her favor, was back in his corner. Cohen wouldn't care if she fell in the line of duty, she was expendable, that's why they had sent a woman rather than a real spy. Hell, Mickey probably expected Roy to abuse her in the hopes he'd let something slip.

But there was nothing to tell, no secrets to be shared. Mickey would lose, Margo would lose, and Roy would come out on top.


	3. Chapter 3

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The week passed quietly. His interaction with Margo had been purposefully minimal. If he came across too strong she might get suspicious and report to Mickey. Not good. So he laid low, biding his time, watching her movements and preparing his next attack.

It came about ten days after their first meeting. Roy was on the way back from the bathroom when he overheard her telling Caldwell's secretary (and, incidentally, a woman he used to sleep with from time to time) that she was going on her lunch break. He ducked around a corner and waited for her to gather her things and leave. Once she had gone, Roy rushed to his window. Margo appeared a moment later and pranced lightly across the street and into the neighboring diner car. To his delight, she took a table alone. Roy grabbed his hat.

The diner car was buzzing with midday activity. Inside was noisy and crowded and smelled like too much grease. Men in suites sat around drinking cups of coffee and eating larges plates of meatloaf and corned beef while their pretty secretary-mistresses attempted to make small talk that was ultimately ignored. Their stupid, sad expressions might have bothered anyone else, but Roy passed over them as easily as one would yesterday's newspaper. A baby cried in the background, a waitress shouted out an order, and Roy searched the crowd.

Margo sat all by herself in a booth by the window, a stark white cigarette twirling in her fingers. The smoke rose above her head mystically. Although her eyes were fixed diligently on the street scene before her, Roy knew she had seen him. Her rigid body language said as much. _Already __on __the __defensive, __Miss __Donahue? _Roy chuckled to himself and strolled over to her table.

"I've been wondering when you'd harass me again, Mr. Earle," Margo said without looking at him. She flicked ash onto her saucer.

"I don't know what you're talking about, doll." Roy grinned and slid into the seat across from her. "I'm just trying to get to know my new secretary."

"I'm not here to 'get to know you', nor do I want to."

Roy smiled a big oily smile.

"They all say that at first, but I know a few tricks that'll make you come arou—"

Margo's head snapped toward him.

"And I know a few tricks that'll leave you singing soprano," she hissed.

Roy's hand convulsed into a fist but he resisted the urge to clock her. Very rarely did he allow women to get away with speaking to him like that. He glared at her and counted slowly to ten. The bitch was lucky she had the good fortune of being in public.

"You don't like me very much, Miss Donahue," he said after a length.

Margo snorted.

"I've heard about you, _Roy __Earle_. You're a bigamist whose ego is only overshadowed by his sexual appetite. I'm not here to be your next victim." She turned back to the window and pressed her cigarette between her lips.

The fire inside him flared slightly. Roy pushed it down. Yelling at her or slapping her around wasn't going to get him what he wanted. No, he had to play this one very coolly. He had to use his head, outsmart her, trap her at her own game.

"I don't think that's very fair, Miss Donahue," Roy said, his voice saturated with mock outrage. Margo looked at him. "You're working on hearsay. Frankly, I'm offended by how quick to judge you are."

"The 'hearsay' of twenty women in our office is enough to convince me judgment is necessary," she returned.

_Only twenty? Really?_

"Perhaps," Roy agreed solemnly, "but as I recall the Jews all believed Jesus was a conman too."

Margo blinked at him and Roy thought he might have gone too far with that one.

"Are you comparing yourself to Jesus Christ, Mr. Earle?" her tone suggested total disbelief.

_Reel it back, kiddo…you're getting ahead of yourself._

"No, no, not at all…just that you shouldn't believe everything you hear. Doesn't a guy deserve a chance?"

He stared into those piercing grey-blue eyes and saw something waver. Roy thought he knew what it was. Mickey had given her orders to figure out what (if anything) he was hiding. She might hate Roy, but you didn't fuck with a direct order from Mickey Cohen, especially if the mark was throwing himself at your feet. The opportunity he was presenting was too perfect. The way she saw it, he might as well have been handing over everything he knew on a silver platter. If Mickey found out she had passed something like that by he would beat her within an inch of her life.

_Between __a __rock __and __a __hard __place, __aren't __we?_ Roy's inner voice laughed.

"What are you asking?" Margo asked. Her eyes shone with defeat. Roy couldn't help a smile.

"Have dinner with me."


	4. Chapter 4

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**I still don't own this...*sigh***

Patrolman Thomas Kelley knew how much trouble he was in.

Part of him thought he deserved it. This is what happens when you get mixed up with Mickey Cohen. But how was Kelley supposed to see how it would all turn out? He thought he had been doing the right thing. Leonard Petersen, the assistant District Attorney, had promised him nothing bad would happen. But now there was a new girl in the office, a "plant" some of the other Cohen insiders were saying, and Kelley knew she was looking for him. He had talked.

He needed to get rid of the evidence, to pin it on somebody else. Kelley had a whole folder of information that could send him straight to the bottom of the Tar Pits. He wasn't going to let that happen to him. He had a wife and a new baby. He wasn't going to get the rub for trying to put food on the table for them. There were cops a lot more corrupt than him anyway, guys who really needed to be fitted for a cement overcoat.

Kelley reminded himself of this as he watched Roy Earle tail that new secretary, the "plant", to the diner across the street. Roy was an asshole, a woman beater. He had probably betrayed Mickey tons of times and gotten away with it.

_He __deserves __it_, Kelley thought as he buried the damning folder in a pile of papers on Roy's desk. _The __son-of-a-bitch __deserves __it._


	5. Chapter 5

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Margo insisted on taking a cab to The Blue Room that evening. Roy didn't argue with her. She could arrive on camelback for all he cared. Let her take her fucking cab, let her pretend she was still in control of the situation, at this point it didn't really matter. One way or another, she would end up in the backseat of his Cadillac.

The club was dark and hazy. Wisps of cigarette smoke writhed seductively in the dim light from the table lamps. Above the low murmur of voices and the clinking of ice in glasses, the band played a soft interlude. Its singer, Elsa Lichtman, was absent, cloistered away in her dressing room between sets. Roy wondered if Phelps was with her. The two had been spending a lot of time together lately…about enough to make a certain Mrs. Phelps very angry if she ever found out about it. It looked to Roy like L.A.'s Golden Boy wasn't as squeaky clean as he'd have people believe.

Roy took his usual table near the bar. He ordered himself a whiskey and lit up a cigarette. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, but still there was no sign of Margo. Roy wasn't worried. She would show up eventually. He had all the time in the world…and a running line of credit with the bartender.

_Take your time, sweetie._

The lights over the stage brightened and Elsa stepped up to the mic. The rhinestones on her dress glittered mystically. Roy watched her with the cruel contempt he reserved for women he knew he shouldn't want to fuck. Elsa was German, probably a communist, and shot more dope than half of the men Roy pulled in during a week. The patriot in Roy hated her, thought she was scum. His dick, however, was a German sympathizer. The inner battle her presence evoked only made Roy hate her more.

Elsa stared to sing and Roy looked around for any sign of Cole. There was none. He had probably slipped out the back, afraid of anyone catching him with dirty hands. Roy snorted and took an irritated drag on his cigarette. He hated self-righteous pricks like Phelps.

Roy looked at his watch. Almost forty minutes had gone by. What was she playing at? Were it not for his own agenda he would have left twenty minutes ago, then where would she be? She'd have to return to Mickey and tell him she screwed the whole thing up because she "didn't like him". That would go over well.

He turned around to signal for another drink and caught sight of Margo. She was hovering near a potted palm and it looked like she had been there a while. Roy eyed her with amusement. She was wearing a very tight red dress that hugged the curves of her hips and was cut very low in the front. Her dark hair was pulled off her neck and her makeup was smokier than usual. This was a girl who was trying too hard.

He motioned for her to come over.

"Nice of you to join me," Roy teased as she took the seat across from him.

"I couldn't find a cab," Margo said dryly. She didn't look at him. Roy raised an eyebrow.

"How about a drink?"

"Yeah, sure…Manhattan, please."

He got up and headed for the bar, stifling a laugh as he did so. She was almost an hour late and now had the nerve to be huffy with him? This dame was more trouble than she was worth.

"Hey, Mack," Roy whispered to the bartender, who leaned across the counter to hear him better. "I got a broad over there who has had a pretty hard day. Do you think you could mix me a Manhattan with a bit of a kick? And I'll need another whiskey."

"Sure thing, Mr. Earle," the bartender said with a wink. He poured a very heavy handed Manhattan and slid it across the counter.

"Thanks." Roy smacked a dollar on the bar and headed back to the table with the drinks.

Margo took her Manhattan and sipped it delicately. She made a bit of a face but said nothing. Roy reclined in his seat and watched her. After a few more timid sips she tossed the remainder of the drink back, clanging the glass on the table when she had finished.

"Is there something you need, Mr. Earle?" she asked, plucking the cherry from the side of her glass and popping it into her mouth.

Roy smiled.

"I'll get you another drink."

By her fourth Manhattan, Roy could see Margo's self control melting away. Her eyes were slightly out of focus and her speech was starting to get lazy. The drink had loosened her up and she was finally talking to him, and not with her usual cold sarcasm either. Margo was actually attempting a pleasant conversation, even laughing. A few times, she tried to direct the conversation toward work but Roy easily sidetracked her with more compliments and more alcohol. Margo took each drink eagerly.

The booze was beginning to make her goofy. She was having trouble balancing on her chair and there was definite promise in the way her S's were bleeding into one another. Roy smirked, pleased. The drunker she was the easier his job would be, and she was almost three-sheets-to-the-wind. Another drink down the hatch had her professing her love for jazz music and swaying drunkenly to the music. She sloshed drink down her front.

"Oops," Margo giggled, wiping it away. She drained the glass with a smile. "Looks like I'll need another, Mr. Earle."

"Call me Roy," he said, gesturing to the bartender. "I think we've reached that point."

Margo leaned on her hand and eyed him, a silly smile on her lips. She started to giggle again.

"You know, _Roy_," she slurred, "I'm starting to think you want to get me drunk."

"Ridiculous," Roy said, sliding her another drink.

Margo flat out laughed at that. Roy raised an eyebrow and smiled. For a woman who was supposed to be gathering information she had sure let her guard down.

_Not the best spy in the world, are we, Miss Donahue?_

"But seriously," Margo began, trying hard to regain some sobriety, "I really need to talk to you about something…something very, very important—"

"Look, doll, I didn't invite you out to talk about case files," Roy said, cutting her off. "Give it a rest already." _There's __nothing __for __you __to __find __anyway._

Margo raised an eyebrow and clumsily lit a cigarette. Slowly, she pressed the filter between her lips, took a long drag, and blew the smoke above her head.

"I know why you invited me here," Margo said, her voice a soft purr. She leaned against the table so her breasts swelled almost out of her dress and her leg found his under the table. "So when do you want to get out of here?"

Roy watched her with a sudden flare of irritation. He was supposed to be enjoying this and wasn't. She wasn't afraid of him, not with six Manhattans in her belly. No, at the moment Margo was completely confident, so much so that she was actually trying to manipulate _him_. Somehow, her brain was still able to remember what Mickey had sent her there for. Roy hadn't banked on that happening, it pissed him off.

And then he realized what he really wanted. He didn't just want to fuck the life out of her, that was too easy. He wanted to _take_her. He wanted her to fight and struggle and scream until she was exhausted. He wanted her to cry, torn between wanting it and hating him. After he was through with her, he wanted to be a scar on her memory, a permanent reminder of the man she feared and couldn't get enough of. How terrifying for her to go through the rest of her days appreciative of the man who took advantage of her, the man who gave her the best sex of her life. Roy saw several years of therapy in store after an encounter like that. The fact that he now had to wait longer made him burn.

_This bitch ruins everything._

Margo slid her chair next to his and slipped her hand under the table. Roy gave a jolt when her fingers found his member. She grinned mischievously.

"What's the matter, Roy? Didn't think I had it in me? Thought I was just a cold hard bitch?"

"Something like that," he muttered.

He hated her, hated her with even more of a fire than he hated Elsa, but her palm gently stroking him over his pants had rendered him temporarily immobile. Margo slipped under the waistband of his pants and grabbed him hard. Roy swelled under her touch. Rage rose along with his dick. He yanked her hand away.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He spat.

"You want it," Margo hummed, trailing her fingers along his thigh.

He did, he wanted it. He was harder than shit and desperately wanted to feel those cherry red lips closing around him, but that would she had won. No, he wouldn't let her. His dick would explode before he let that happen.

Roy did up his pants and stood up. He tossed a five dollar bill on the table.

"That's for a cab. Get yourself home."

Roy stalked out of the club without a second look.

The next time he saw Margo he wouldn't play so nice.


	6. Chapter 6

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"What the fuck is this?"

Mickey Cohen looked from the piece of paper on his desk to the well dressed, obviously shaken clerk before him. The man turned his hat in his hands. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the two armed guards flanking either side of Cohen's drawing room door. A glint of metal sparkled from between the folds of their coats.

"It's a subpoena, Mr. Cohen," the man said carefully, turning again to face Cohen.

"I know that, you asshole," Mickey spat, "I meant what's it doing on my fucking desk?"

The clerk blinked stupidly. Mickey raised his eyebrows in impatient annoyance.

"I believe the charges are drug trafficking, sir," the clerk said.

"And why the fuck would I have a drug trafficking charge!" Mickey roared, leaning across the desk at him. "What the fuck am I paying you fuckers down there for if this kind of bullshit comes floating across my desk? I don't have time to play lawyers with you fucking shitheads! I want you to take this back to that cock sucking DA of yours and tell him to shove it up his ass!"

Mickey flung the subpoena across the desk. It fluttered in front of the clerk's face, who flailed around awkwardly in a vain attempt to catch it before it hit the floor.

"I—I don't think I can do that, Mr. Cohen."

"Shut the hell up," Mickey barked. He leaned back in his chair and reached for the pistol sitting next to the telephone. He stroked the barrel, thinking. "Who else did this bastard serve papers to?"

"The whole racket, sir," the clerk said evasively.

"I want names," Mickey growled. His fist tightened around the gun and the clerk swallowed. He rattled off the expected names; affiliated mobsters, public officials, doctors, lawyers, patrol men he had bought off… Mickey listened intently, waiting for the man to finish. There was one name he hadn't heard. "What about Roy Earle?"

"No, Mr. Cohen. He's clean."

Mickey glared across his desk at the clerk for a long, tense minute. Then he motioned for his guards.

"Get him outta here," he growled. "Then find our Miss Donahue. I think it's time we lit the fire under her ass. That fucker, Earle, is hiding something and before I kill the son-of-a-bitch I'd like to know what it is."


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I still don't own :(**

Detective Cole Phelps rarely if ever went into Roy Earle's office. On top of there being really no need for him to, he didn't really care for Earle all that much. Today however, he needed to drop off the file for the case they had been assigned to work together. He had been trying for days to get Roy to take it but he always managed to sneak away before Cole could pass the file along. Cole was beginning to think he had an aversion to paperwork.

Roy was not in his office when Cole knocked but the door was partially open so he went in anyway. He had just placed the file on Roy's cluttered desk when something caught his eye; a stark white envelope with a gold insignia in the right hand corner. The looping letters spelled out "M.C.". Cole picked it up. Looking over his should to make sure Roy wasn't lurking in the doorway, he sifted through its contents. Cole's heart skipped a beat. What he was holding in his hand was way more than the petty favors he knew Roy pulled for the mob. This was big, a real operation.

He wondered if the new D.A. would be interested in taking a look.


	8. Chapter 8

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Margo called in sick the day after her date with Roy. It was a cowardly thing to do, she knew it, but the thought of facing him made her stomach clench. As horrible as last night had been, Margo knew his attitude this morning would be even worse. She had agreed to dig up information about Cohen's drug racket, not be emotionally harassed by a jackass detective. This was where Margo drew the line.

She spent the majority of the morning in bad spirits, moping around in her curlers and bathrobe, angry at not being able to pull off the job. Everything had been going so well at the start. Roy had done everything Mickey had said he would do. What had happened? Somewhere between her fifth or sixth Manhattan and her hand down his pants things had taken a turn. Margo had been assured over and over that sex was a sure way to get what she wanted from Earle. Had he been overcome with some moral epiphany? He sure picked a hell of a time…

The phone rang around eleven-thirty, jerking Margo out of her doze on the couch. She fished around the floor in front of her for the receiver, found it, and pressed it against her ear.

"Hello?" She murmured. There was no answer. "Who's speaking?"

Heavy breathing came over the line, ragged and deep. Margo's blood chilled. Slowly, she slid off the sofa and crossed to the living room windows. Peeling back the curtains, Margo caught sight of a man at the payphone across the street. He was staring up at her window, phone in hand. Her grip around the Bakelite tightened.

"What does he want?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

The man didn't answer but his lips curled in a sinister smile. He hung up and slipped into the shadows of a neighboring alley. Margo let the curtain fall in front of her face. How had they known she hadn't gone to work today?

Calmly, she replaced the receiver and slipped on her shoes.

Outside, the man in the alley waited.

* * *

><p>Roy drained the last cold dregs of coffee from his cup and rubbed his eyes. Seven hours of staring at pica type had made him go slightly cross-eyed and a dull headache pulsed at the base of his skull. Paperwork was Roy's least favorite thing about police work. He had let it pile up for months, purposefully avoiding it until the mountain of case files on his desk became so unbearably ridiculous that he had no choice but to sort through it. Now he was suffering the consequences. At ten o'clock at night, he was the last person remaining on his floor. Roy could hear the patrolmen goofing around below him but they never came upstairs. It was just him. He should be at a bar picking up some dame, not cloistered away like a monk transcribing the bible.<p>

Roy yanked open the top drawer of his desk and sifted around for his bottle of aspirin. It was empty.

_Great, _Roy thought with a sigh, tossing the empty bottle into the wastebasket next to him. _Maybe __there__'__ll __be __some __in __the __break__room__…__at __least __I__'__ll __get __to __move __around._

He pushed himself away from the desk and stood up, stretching. His back cracked loudly. Maybe he'd get more coffee while he was up, or go harass the boys downstairs for a bit.

Anything to get out of that goddamn chair.

* * *

><p>Margo patted more powder over the angry purple bruise that was forming on her cheek. She winced as pain flared hot and white behind her eyes. Mickey had really laid into her. The DA was at his heels threatening indictments, the L.A. police department was rounding up people left and right, and Cohen was convinced it was Earle's fault. Her only job had been to deliver proof, give him a scapegoat to throw the DA off the trail, and she had failed because of her own stupid pride. Mickey had never beaten her before today. He had told her she deserved it…<p>

The cabbie kept throwing her curious glances in his rearview mirror. Margo ignored him the best she could, keeping her eyes trained on the rain streaked window. She was headed to the office, as per Mickey's "request"…she would finish the job tonight, no excuses.

The cab pulled up in front of the L.A. Police Department and Margo passed a ten dollar bill to the driver. Not waiting for change, she slid herself out of the car and hurried through the rain into the building.

The light was on in the patrolmen's break room. Voices and the clinking of coffee cups drifted into the hallway. Margo tiptoed down the dark hallway and up the staircase to the Vice desks. The frosted glass windows of Earle's office were aglow with soft yellow light. His door was open slightly and Margo could hear him rustling papers and opening drawers. She quickly ducked into the shadows of a nearby office, her heart fluttering a little. Margo hadn't expected him to be here; normally he ducked out before five to head to the bars. She should have known better. The papers on his desk had been teetering too precariously to ignore forever.

A silhouette materialized on the glass and Margo held her breath. Roy opened the office door and headed for the staircase, coffee cup in hand. The door to his office gaped wide behind him, a sea of papers clearly visible on the desk. Margo backed further into the darkness, scarcely allowing herself to breathe until Roy had passed her. The sound of his shoes on the staircase faded to nothing and Margo pulled herself into the hallway. Apprehensively, she leaned over the banister and listened. The patrolmen had fallen silent, then Roy's voice, loud but indecipherable, cut the air. There was a rumble of laughter and the scrape of a chair being pulled out. Roy was settling in.

Margo slipped down the hall and into the office like a ghost. Once inside, she headed toward the desk. The piles of paper loomed at her mockingly, daring her to find anything of use among its haphazardly stacked mounds. Margo doubted Roy would just leave incriminating evidence lying around willy-nilly, but she had to start someplace. Gingerly, she began searching, moving papers piece by piece so as not to disturb anything too much.

_This __is __crazy, __Margo, __he__'__s __not __going __to __just __keep __whatever __it __is __you__'__re __looking __for __on __his __desk__…__at __work__…__you __should __be __trying __his __house, __or __maybe __that __stupid __car __of __his._

She sighed, replaced the papers, and pulled open a desk drawer.

"Good evening, Margo."

* * *

><p>Roy watched her rifle through the papers on his desk from the doorway. A steady rage began to boil inside of him. She wouldn't find what she was looking for, he knew that, but that wasn't the point. Nobody took advantage of Roy Earle. Fuck Mickey Cohen, fuck his whole operation. He was a pintsized asshole with an attitude problem and Roy wasn't going to sit back and allow himself to be thrown under the buss. He had risked his ass for that bastard too many times to be disregarded like that. He wasn't a pawn. Mickey was going to understand that, he'd make sure.<p>

And then there was Margo. This woman had pressed just about even button Roy owned and he was tired of it. Whatever feminist illusions she held about them being equals was bullshit, and he was fucking sick of it. Everything about her made his stomach churn with anger, raw and unyielding. Roy had put up with it long enough. He should have just destroyed her that night at the Blue Room. At any rate, she'd learn her place now.

"Good evening, Margo," he hissed coolly. Margo's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide when she saw who it was. "I thought you were sick today."

Roy stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. He turned the lock, never taking his eyes off Margo. Her face was slowly draining of color. She closed the drawer she had been going through. Roy smirked and slowly walked toward the desk, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he did.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to snoop through other people's things?" He was directly across from her now. All that separated them was the desk. "What exactly did you expect to find?"

"I wasn't snooping," Margo said, forcefully. She was still white as a sheet but her voice was strong, defiant. "I was just—"

"Mickey give you that?" Roy asked suddenly, nodded at the welt on her face. The start she gave betrayed her before she had even opened her mouth.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"He must be pretty angry," Roy said, staring her down. His lips curled around his teeth. "Did you cry? I bet you did."

Margo drew herself up and returned his gaze with a boldness that caused Roy's anger to blaze white hot. Here she was all but cornered and still she didn't get it.

"I told you, I don't—"

Roy's open palm had made contact with the side of Margo's head with a thunderous _crack!_ The force of the slap nearly sent her flying to the floor. Still, she didn't make a sound, not even a whimper. Roy pulled pack and slapped her again, harder this time. The ring he wore on his middle finger cut across the bridge of her nose and blood smeared her cheek.

"You think I'm an idiot?" Roy growled, whirling around to her side of the desk and holding her by the cheeks. "I know you're working for Cohen, you fucking whore, I've know the whole goddamn time." Margo glared at him, unyielding. This bitch was pushing it. He caught a chunk of her hair in his fist and slammed her face against the desk. Margo sputtered a little; he leaned down next to her cheek. "But that's not what gets me. What really pisses me off is this fucking attitude you have, Miss Donahue. I've tried to be nice…but you insist on doing everything the hard way."

Roy reached under her skirt and tore her garters from her stockings. Margo went to scream but he slammed her face against the surface of the desk again. Sharp pain and then the taste of metal, Margo's teeth had cut through her tongue. Blood dripped onto the desk, staining the papers red. Margo gurgled indistinctly and her body went slack. Roy's hand felt between her thighs. His fingers drew across her panties and then slipped underneath them. She was soft and warm. He savored her for a moment before tearing her underwear from her body. Margo let out a soft sob and Roy's pants tightened. He nibbled at her earlobe.

"I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk," Roy whispered, pressing his dick against her ass, "and when I'm done you're not going to know whether to thank me or damn me to hell."

Roy whipped her around, shoving the folders off of the desk, and slid her onto the flat surface. Margo thrashed underneath him, weakly beating his chest with her fists. The blood in her mouth made it hard for her to yell but she was squealing shrilly. Her eyes were glassy with fear. Roy's blood pumped faster. Seeing her helpless and terrified underneath him almost made him salivate. He reached up and tore the buttons from her blouse, exposing her breasts in their white lace bra. Pinning her arms to her sides, Roy leaned down and took her right nipple in his mouth, biting hard. Margo flailed wildly and tried to knee him between the legs. Roy caught her by the throat.

"Try that again and I'll squeeze the life out of you, bitch," he hummed. "You're going to lay here and take it or I'm going to slit you from ear to ear with a letter opener, understand?"

Margo's face was going blue from lack of air. She clawed at his hand, nodding fervently. Roy loosened his grip but didn't let go. He didn't believe she wasn't going to try and escape again. With his other hand he unbuckled his belt and let his pants fall to his ankles. He hiked Margo's skirt up around her waist and positioned himself at her opening. Roy felt her shaking and the desire to giggle like a kid on Christmas overcame him. God he was hard.

Something wet dripped onto the first around her throat and he looked up at her. Margo was sobbing silently, mascara running down her face and mingling with the smears of blood. She wasn't fighting anymore, wasn't even moving, her whole body was limp under him. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling and her lips were moving rapidly. Roy caught a few whispered words and realized she was praying, begging for help or mercy or whatever people prayed for when hell was upon them. He stopped.

She felt his pause and their eyes met. Roy felt disgust rise in his belly and a sweeping wave of nausea overcame him. Was she really just going to lay there and let him do this? He knew he said for her to…but…

Roy pulled back and punched the top of the desk. Margo winced, expecting it to be for her. When she opened her eyes again Roy was pulling up his pants.

"Get the fuck out of here," he said, not looking at her. "Get the fuck out of California. I never want to see your goddamn face again. And if you ever tell anyone about this I'll hunt you down and finish what I started."

He picked up his jacket and stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.


End file.
